


Clever as the Devil... and Twice as Pretty

by oyhumbug



Series: The Devil Series [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1452544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyhumbug/pseuds/oyhumbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part Two of the Devil One Shot Series – It's been ten days since Oliver and Felicity agreed that they have to have sex in order to protect the cover story she told Roy, only no sex has happened. Once Felicity finds out what the delay is, she schedules them a lunchtime field trip... to the gynecologist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clever as the Devil... and Twice as Pretty

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted at fanfiction.net, LJ (oy_humbug2), and my own site (Delicious Infatuation).
> 
> I hope this lives up to its predecessor. I had so much fun writing The Devil in the Details, and it was received so well (in other places), that it just seemed natural to continue this cheeky verse. I have plans to make this a small series of one shots, so this shouldn't be the last one. Something to note, the title comes from a quote by Holly Black. And that's it. Enjoy!
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**Clever as the Devil... and Twice as Pretty** **  
Part Two of The Devil Series  
An Olicity One Shot**

 

He was in Felicity's bathroom.  
  
_ Oliver Queen  _ was in  _ her  _ bathroom.  
  
It shouldn't have been that... well, weird. But it was.   
  
Obviously, he used bathrooms. For one thing, he was human...  _ and  _ evolved. Well, partially evolved. Maybe he still beat his chest occasionally and swung from trees half naked (not that she was complaining about that second exception or anything), but he also embraced modern plumbing. Thank god. Plus, he showered. A lot. Felicity knew, because she often saw him – not  _ naked and in the shower _ (unfortunately... or, at least, unfortunately for now) but wet. Afterwards. In fact, she saw him  _ after  _ his showers so often that she had his fresh, clean, just showered scent memorized. She liked it nearly as much as she liked his sweaty, dirty, 'I just went out and arrowed someone' scent.   
  
But Oliver wasn't showering in her bathroom. That much she could tell, at least. Because she lived in an old building, the walls were thin. Or, more accurately, the sound proofing was thin. As in non-existent. She could sneeze, and her neighbor from upstairs would tell Felicity they hoped she felt better soon the next time they saw each other while leaving for work in the morning. She didn't even want to think about what would be said across the sidewalk after they heard her having sex with Oliver. Because they would – hear her, that is. While Felicity was surprisingly not very vocal in bed... given her propensity to talk when anywhere else, she knew that Oliver was not the type of man who would be satisfied with sated silence or even gratified groans. No, he would want the whole enchilada....  
  
And great. Now, she was not only on edge (because it was going on five minutes now since Oliver had skedaddled around her and fairly fled down her short hall and into her bathroom), but she was also hungry. For Mexican. And the last thing she needed to do before having sex – sex with  _ Oliver Queen _ – was eat a burrito. Or nachos. Or anything else that ended in 'o'.  
  
To distract herself, she zeroed her gaze back onto the closed door of her bathroom. Glowered.   
  
The stupid man.  
  
If he would have just come in and ravished her like she had been hoping for (because, though she was thoroughly looking forward to the sex she had basically been bamboozled... or was she the bamboozeler?... into having with Oliver, that didn't negate her nervousness), then none of her current thoughts would be plaguing her. She wouldn't be worried about her neighbors hearing her voice reach octaves Allison Goldfrapp would be proud of. Or hungry. Or afraid that Oliver had fallen in.  
  
All melodrama aside, Felicity could only come up with three possible explanations as to why Oliver had now been in her bathroom for six minutes. None of them were pleasant. Or reassuring.  
  
First and foremost, he could have been just using the bathroom. For six minutes... which meant, yeah. It wasn't like she could hold  _ that  _ against him. After all, everyone did it. She did it. Digg did it. Even Oliver Queen did it. But it wasn't how she pictured their first time having sex together starting. Sure, it would take a lot more to dim her attraction towards him, but it also certainly didn't do anything to set the mood.   
  
Perhaps it should have been... complimentary? - that he would feel comfortable enough in her home, with her, to do  _ that  _ before having sex with her. That was like... six months into the relationship and practically living together familiarity. But, instead, the thought of Oliver doing  _ that  _ in her bathroom just made her feel even more like his friend and less like his impending lover – like one of the guys. Although, she was pretty sure, while on his way to the bathroom to do  _ that _ , Oliver wouldn't have handed  _ one of the guys _ the results of his HIV blood test.  
  
The second option was that Oliver was manscaping.  
  
Just the word alone – manscaping – made Felicity snort a laugh. But then she realized, if Oliver  _ was  _ manscaping, that he was using her razors, and any humor went 'Bye Bye Birdie.' That was just... wrong. On so many levels. But mainly because her razors were expensive, damn it, and she didn't need Oliver Queen's (delicious) stubble dulling them. While she had no doubt that someone as pretty as Oliver was well-versed in the art of manscaping, he should have known better than to wait practically until the moment of... contact... to engage in such efforts of grooming. No, he should have been a responsible future partner and taken care of such business in advance.   
  
Like she had.  
  
But Felicity was pretty sure that Oliver wasn't manscaping either, because that would mean her fears (and possible explanation number three) were unfounded. Which, they weren't, because she had proof – a lot of proof, too much proof, days of proof that Oliver Queen was in the midst of giving an Oscar-worthy performance of an FAA employee, because his apparent motto since they had agreed to (or... more accurately, she had talked them into a 'we have to have sex' corner and Oliver had tricked... no, not tricked, because Oliver wasn't sleeping with her for money... or cocaine, but if the sexual promiscuousness fit...?) Anyway, her point was that Oliver had been walking around with the words 'Delay, Delay, Delay' flashing above his stupidly beautiful face for the past week and a half, and she was pretty sure that was the real reason why he had now been in her bathroom for... eleven minutes.  
  
The act of looking at her cell phone to check the time reminded Felicity of the paper she was holding. Luckily for her, Oliver Queen did not have fleas; unfortunately for her, it had taken him far longer than it should have to reassure her of this.  
  
She wasn't an idiot. Like with everything else in her life, she had done her research. She knew that there were rapid HIV tests that one could get the results back from in fifteen to twenty minutes, which meant that Oliver could have gone, gotten his/her/their answer, and returned with said answers all while on his lunch break. When he didn't do this, she excused his sluggishness. After all, his work schedule was busy, and maybe he wanted to be more thorough. For her. But a lab test, at the most, took three days for results... well, as long as the results were positive, and, if that had been the case, then they would have been dealing with a much bigger problem than keeping her cover story straight with Roy.  
  
Now, ten days later and with the negative results in her hands, Felicity knew that Oliver was putting off the inevitable. Or maybe, sex – the sex, their sex – wasn't inevitable; maybe it actually wasn't going to happen, especially if Oliver never came out of her bathroom. Sure, she had a nice one – bathroom, that is. A separate shower, a soaking tub, double sinks, and, if she said so herself, it was tastefully decorated, too, but Oliver Queen lived in a frickin' castle (an American version perhaps but still a frickin' castle). In comparison to his, her lovely by any other standards bathroom was probably the equivalent of a port-o-potty. With soap. Someone as active (okay, so maybe that was a nice way to say that he was as restless as a caged tiger) as Oliver wouldn't be able to stay locked away in a small room forever. Eventually, he'd cave and....  
  
“Where are your birth control pills?”  
  
“Why, do you need to take one?” When Felicity realized what she had just said, she slapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. It was already out there... like so much of what came out of her mouth but shouldn't ever see the light of lips. And, just like he usually did when that non-existent filter of hers became apparent, Oliver just narrowed his already piercing gaze and tilted his head to the side, observing her closely. “I mean, I don't take birth control pills... not that it's any of your business, by the way. Why?”  
  
“It kind of is.”  
  
“It kind of is what?”  
  
“My business,” Oliver answered, blinking slowly in that way of his that just said 'duh.' It really made her dislike his ridiculously long, gorgeous, stupid lashes.   
  
Rearing back as if she had been struck, Felicity pursed her lips. She could feel her brows hiking nearly to her hairline. “Excuse me?”  
  
“If we're going to have sex...”  
  
“When we have sex,” she corrected him.  
  
He ignored her. “ … we need to make sure that nothing  _ unexpected _ happens.”  
  
“You mean that you don't want to knock me up.”  
  
“Felicity,” Oliver sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. If she hated his winky-blinky 'duh' face, then she abhorred when he pinched the bridge of his nose... like just listening to her was giving him a headache.   
  
“No, don't  _ Felicity _ me,  _ Oliver _ .” Realization dawning, she stepped forward, closer to him. With hands on her hips, she accused, “is that what you were doing in my bathroom for so long? Were you... snooping? For birth control?”  
  
“I wasn't snooping; I was being proactive.”  
  
“No, what you were being was a weirdo.” When he didn't respond, she kept talking. “People don't do that, Oliver. Normal people – people who respect boundaries – don't do that!”  
  
Like he always seemed to whenever she brought up a valid point against him, he ignored her. “I didn't find a diaphragm, rings, patches, sponges, or cervical caps either.”  
  
“First of all, the fact that you even know what all of those things look like –  _ I  _ don't even know what all of those things look like – is disturbing. Just how much sex have you had?” Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes, and holding up a warning hand, Felicity said, “no, nevermind. Pretend I never asked that question, because I  _ do not  _ want to know the answer.” Looking at him once more, she continued, “and, secondly, why is it  _ my _ responsibility to make sure that  _ we _ ... don't end up in the pudding club?”  
  
Oliver rolled his eyes. “What does that even mean?”  
  
“Just watch some British television already, Oliver!”  
  
He took a fortifyingly deep breath. “If you're asking me why we just can't use condoms, well... I don't like them.”  
  
Dryly, she repeated, “you don't like them?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oliver, condoms should be your best friends. You should worship them. You should bow down at their alter and kiss their... rubber.” Felicity couldn't help but smirk. “If it weren't for condoms, you'd have more kids by now than the entire population of a small country. Think Luxemburg, not Liechtenstein.”  
  
“I thought you didn't want to know how much sex I've had.”  
  
“I don't want you to confirm what I already sadly know.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I'd prefer it if we didn't use condoms. It feels... better.”  
  
She sighed. And then smoothed out the front of her blouse. And then took another step closer to Oliver, to the bathroom he had held hostage for nearly a quarter of an hour. “Oliver, I want you to think back over the entire time that we've known each other. Have you ever seen me wear cowboy boots or a cowboy hat?”  
  
“Felicity, what does that have to do....”  
  
That's as far as he got in his question before she interrupted him. Using her loud voice. “No, you haven't, so why you  _ ever  _ thought that I'd ride you bare-back like a....” It was Oliver choking that told Felicity she might not have completely thought out what she was going to say. Again. “I mean, I don't think birth control pills are the best option. As you know, my life is a little hectic, and, if you forget to take one or don't take them regularly....”  
  
“So, what did you do... before now?”  
  
This time Felicity snorted. “Condoms. I used condoms. Besides, between you and you, it's not like I have a lot of time for...”  
  
“... rumpy-pumpy,” Oliver supplied for her, obviously making fun of the various euphemisms she had used for sex when talking to Roy.   
  
“Right.”  
  
“The herky-jerky.”  
  
“I call it that, too, yes.”  
  
“Taking Grandma to Applebees.”  
  
“Oliver, I might not have had a lot of sex... at least, not in comparison to you, but I can stand here all day giving you alternative ways to say what we're supposed to actually be doing. That is, if you really want me to.” She had a sneaking suspicion that he kind of did want her to do that. “Anyway, like I was saying, I haven't really had a need for birth control recently.”  _ Because it's not like her own fingers needed to practice safe sex.  
  
_ It was after that thought that Felicity met Oliver's gaze head-on... his very dilated gaze. Quickly, she scanned the rest of him: mouth agape, hands clenched, posture rigid. She cringed. “Whoops-a-daisy.”  
  
After several tense, quiet moments, Oliver finally relaxed, leaning back so he was resting against her hallway wall, his legs crossing before him at the ankles. “So, we're at an impasse.”  
  
“More like between a rock and a soft, squishy, warm place,” she muttered under her breath.  
  
“Felicity.” He groaned.  
  
Apparently, she needed to work on her muttering.  
  
“Would you please go on birth control?”  
  
“Oliver, if I would agree to this, no matter what method I decide on, that'll take a few days.”  
  
He shrugged; he shrugged those stupidly strong, stupidly muscled, stupidly sexy shoulders of his. “I can wait.”  
  
And that, she suddenly realized, was the whole reason behind his sudden aversion to latex and lambskin. While it had been his idea that they had to have sex in order to back up her story to Roy, Felicity now believed that Oliver had never expected her to take him up on his offer, his dare. He had been... baiting her. Toying with her. Teasing her. And, when she jumped on the chance to jump his bones, panic set in. Oh, she had no doubt that Oliver was attracted to her, that there was a part of him that wanted to have sex with her. She had gotten over that hang-up right around the same time that she had ended up with a sweaty, half-naked Oliver on top of her. After all, cargos weren't kevlar. But that didn't mean that he was ready for everything that would come with the two of them sleeping together... even if they did manage to keep things strictly platonic. Strictly platonically sexual, that is.  
  
“Well, maybe I can't,” Felicity countered. At his cocky little smirk, she narrowed her gaze, annoyed. “Oliver, a few days after we agreed to do... each other, I got a wax. It hurt. For you. It hurt.  _ There _ . It hurt a lot. It was the first time, and have I mentioned yet that it hurt? A lot? And, because it was the first time, that means I'll have to have it waxed again. And that'll hurt. Soon. Like... this-smooth-window-of-opportunity-is-closing-with-every-second-we-stand-here soon.” By the time she finished talking, Felicity wasn't sure if she was blushing – because she could feel the heat on her face – because she was embarrassed or because she was recalling the agony that was a Brazilian.  
  
“Look, Felicity, I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't trust you. You know that, right? I just....” Oliver paused, glanced away. “There's no one else. While we're doing this, there isn't going to be anyone else. And so I just thought... why not enjoy it as much as possible?”  
  
He was so full of crap. While she didn't doubt anything that he was saying, the only reason why Oliver was insisting upon not using condoms was because it gave him another way to ground their flight, so to speak. And the only reason why she was willing to capitulate was because, in his stupid, messed up, Oliver Queen ways, he was only delaying because he cared.   
  
Oh, and he was also frightened as well, but that, too, was because he cared.  
  
Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave in. “Fine. But I'm not going on the pill.”  
  
“What about an IUD,” Oliver suggested.  
  
“You want me to put a bomb in my...”  
  
“That's IED, Felicity,” he interrupted her.  
  
“Still, too close for comfort. We're talking about my uterus here.” Felicity noticed that Oliver shuddered slightly when she said the word uterus, which was interesting. Very interesting, indeed. Evidently, Mr. Birth Control Expert did not like to contemplate the lady bits those tools were meant to baby-proof.  
  
“An implant?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
His brow wrinkled. “Why not?”  
  
She really just didn't like the word, but Oliver didn't need to know that. “Do I need a reason when I'm agreeing to do this for you in the first place?”  
  
“Right,” he quickly placated, nodding to emphasize his concession.  
  
“And you can forget all those scary sounding things you mentioned earlier – rings, sponges, diaphragms. If it can be put in, it can come out. Plus, you have to pop those things into place every time you want to have sex, and, if you think I'm going to walk around town with a cervical cap in my purse just so I can be ready whenever you decide to drop your flirty-flirt on me, then you've got another thing coming, Oliver Queen.”  
  
“Oh. Kay.”  
  
“What else do you have in your arsenal of egg corrupters, sperm destroyers, Dr. Ruth?”  
  
“The patch?”  
  
“Like a smoker,” Felicity immediately dismissed. “I think not.” Before Oliver could suggest anything else, she told him, “did you know that Dr. Ruth was actually a trained sniper  _ and  _ Jewish? We Jews do everything better. Including sex... which you would already know for yourself right now if you'd just...”  
  
For what felt like the thousandth time too many in their relationship, he interrupted her. “What about the shot?”  
  
“A needle? Seriously?”  
  
“You're out of options, Felicity.”  
  
She furrowed her brow and grumbled below her breath in frustration, in exasperation. “Fine. But I want it in my hip, not my shoulder.”  
  
“That's great.”  
  
“And I'll make the appointment for tomorrow.”  
  
“Super.”  
  
“And you're going with me.”  
  
“Sounds... what?”  
  
“Oliver, if I have to go see my OB-GYN when it's not even time for my yearly, and if I have to have a needle shoved into my... gluteus maximus... all because  _ you  _ are a tool who won't wrap his fool – and, yes, I meant it in that order, then you're going with me. You're going with me. You're paying my co-pay. You're holding my hand.  _ And  _ you're buying me ice cream afterwards. Any questions?”  
  
He slowly shook his head no.  
  
“Good. Now, I want some Mexican food.”  
  
Without waiting for him to respond, Felicity turned on her heels and moved purposely towards the door. And Oliver followed obediently behind.

 

…

 

Felicity Smoak had a motto when it came to visiting the gynecologist: keep your head down and your eyes on your own uterus. It was something she learned after her very first visit to the scary doctor with the duck billed torture device. Nervous... and, as she always was when nervous, chatty, she had made the horrifying mistake of making eye contact with someone. Eye contact led to conversation, and conversation led to regrettably asking the very nice but, albeit, easily offended woman when she was due. There had been no baby but, instead, an important lesson learned.  
  
So, when she felt more than saw someone plop down beside her that afternoon, Felicity was caught off guard when she heard a male and recognizable voice tease her. And, no, it wasn't Oliver's voice, because she had taken pity on him and allowed him to meet her at  _ their  _ appointment and the infuriating man had an allergy to being on time. “Fancy meeting you here.”  
  
Her gaze was already hovering in the general vicinity, the latitude just a few degrees off, so it didn't take much for her to slide it down and over pointedly “Why, Roy, is there something you want to share with the class?”  
  
He sputtered; he spewed. He turned crimson with embarrassment; he then blanched at the thought she had cruelly (gleefully) put out there. And, in the meantime, Felicity sightlessly reached for a magazine from a nearby side table, aiming at nonchalant and trying to project a causal air. While Roy recovered from her cheeky accusation, she flipped through the glossy pages. Even after he was poised enough to talk again, to go on the offensive once more, Felicity maintained her calm and disinterested attitude. After all, maybe she didn't particularly enjoy going to the gynecologist, but an OB-GYN office was her territory, not Roy's, and she had handedly won their last confrontation. There was no reason to think that the young delinquent would suddenly be able to one up her now.  
  
“You're just the secretary I was looking for.”  
  
“You know,” Felicity bantered back thoughtfully. “There are perks to being an  _ executive assistant _ .” Roy snorted; she marched on, undaunted. “The salary bump allows for me to spend more on my wardrobe. That means better jewelry, nicer clothes, and higher, more well-built heels.” And, with that, she demonstrated said heels' durability by lifting one formerly crossed at the ankle foot from the floor and ramming it into Roy's foot – more specifically, his toes.   
  
“Hey,” he howled, jumping up and away form her. Felicity merely smirked before returning innocently to her magazine, making like she had no idea who the crazy man was beside her or why in the world he was making a scene. And a scene he was most certainly making, because his outburst had garnered the attention of not only the other patients in the waiting room but also some of the staff from the office.   
  
Roy eventually retook his seat, but, when he did so, he made sure to keep his feet as far away from Felicity as he possibly could without going so far as to lay them on the chair to the other side of him. Out of the corner of her eye, she also watched as he pouted – going so far as to fold his arms over his red hoodie attired chest and ignoring her... which was perfectly preferable in her book. Nothing good could come out of she and Roy sharing a conversation in the waiting room of her OB-GYN's office, especially not when she was there to procure birth control (really, it would be more comforting if they called it birth prevention instead, and, yeah, sure, Felicity knew that nothing besides abstinence was 100% full-proof, but even the risk of a kid was more palatable than a lack of orgasms... well, non-self induced orgasms) for  _ the sex _ –  _ the sex  _ with Oliver... that she was already supposed to be having and would have been having if he wasn't such a scared little weasel who thought he could tease her about needing to have sex to back up her cover story and not actually thinking she'd take him up on his offer. Because, duh. That was a no-brainer.  
  
Yet, a poor poker player or not (really, he should have known better than to call a card shark's bluff – seriously), she had taken pity on the fool. Rather than make him accompany her to the time of death of three months' worth of her eggs, she had allowed him to meet her there, even going so far as to set up a fake dentist appointment for him in his calendar. Because her OB-GYN's office was located in a large, medical plaza, there were doctors of every variety nearby. Felicity had been tempted to make it a fake, cover prostate appointment, but she had gone for more realistic, because, not only were her efforts in an attempt to keep the paparazzi at bay, she was also guarding against Isabel. Just in case Miss Isabel My-Name-Is-In-the-Notebook-But-I-Slept-with-Oliver-So-I-Don't-Have-An-Arrow-In-Me-Yet Rochev snooped into Oliver's schedule, she wanted to have their tracks covered. While, realistically, she knew that Oliver had other reasons why his more  _ queenly – _ seriously, what was with the makeup? - persona had not gone after the succubus of a business shark they were forced to work with, it was his fault she had been forced to make an unscheduled pit stop at the gynecologist – an unscheduled pit stop with needles, so she wasn't showing any mercy. She was going to call it like she saw it, and she saw Isabel still being out of jail and allowed to be a leggy-model shaped pain in her tukhus as Oliver's libido's fault.  
  
“So, we need to talk.”  
  
Yeah... that was probably a good idea – Roy's very first, because, even though, just moments before, she had believed a convo between them to be a very big no-no, apparently, it was even worse for Felicity to talk to herself, because, really, that's pretty much what her thinking translated into. For once, though, she didn't say any of this out loud.  
  
“As you know, I'm looking for the Arrow.”  
  
Still pretending interest in her magazine, Felicity snorted. “Then you should be at the optometrist, not the gynecologist, because, if this – you accusing Oliver of being the Arrow – is you looking, then I think you need glasses.”  
  
The sexually confused (she internally giggled and smirked at this) man ignored her. Maybe he needed an audiologist, too. “And you know who he is.”  
  
“I work with him,” Felicity corrected. “I know his penchant for encrypted emails, text messages, and the occasional voice-modulated phone call. In fact, what I don't know is why we're using male pronouns. The Arrow, for all we know, could be a woman.”  
  
“Are you telling me that  _ you're _ the Arrow?”  
  
She didn't think; she just reacted. Snorting, Felicity denied, “yeah right. Like I could do that salmon thingy.”  
  
“What salmon thingy?”  
  
_ Mother. Trucker.  
  
_ Feigning particular interest in her magazine, Felicity lifted the popular serial higher, hoping that it would hide her mortification and fear at making such an obvious blunder. And then she talked. A lot. And fast. Because, as previously discovered, Roy had the IQ of room temperature... and doctor's offices were notoriously chilly, so talking herself out of this one would be like giving candy to a baby... which, come to think of it, was the stupidest idiom ever, because who in their right mind would give pure sugar in a solid form to something that didn't have teeth and was all-demanding  _ without  _ the addition of a child's version of crack-cocaine... not that she personally knew what using crack-cocain was like. After all, in Felicity Smoak's world, pot equaled peanuts, and peanuts equaled anaphylactic shock. So, yeah, epinephrin was her drug of choice.   
  
And where the h-e-double-hockey-sticks was she?  
  
Oh right.  
  
She was about to talk circles around Roy The-Gates-Are-Down-and-the-Lights-are-Flashing-but-the-Train-Isn't-Coming Harper.  
  
“You know, they say that the Arrow doesn't just jump down from buildings; he/she/it... because, really, we shouldn't discriminate against hermaphrodites or aliens... also jumps up them, which, when you think about it, sounds utterly ridiculous, but I guess it's supposed to be like a salmon swimming up stream – some kind of undulation. It kind of sounds like doing the worm, if you ask me, but with leather on, which you would think would make this whole movement just that much harder. I mean, leather's a similar texture to skin... not that the leather wouldn't protect the Arrow against brick burn – and can I just say ouch!, but it wouldn't be the most slippery of material. Unless wet, I guess. And we do seem to have a disproportionate amount of crime at night when it's raining. Have you ever noticed...?”  
  
“Do you ever stop to even breathe,” Roy (mercifully) interrupted her. Really, Felicity was starting to wonder if he was ever going to get around to that. “And I meant a salmon bar.”  
  
“Wait, there's a bar that just serves salmon... like Bubba-Gump Shrimp only serves shrimp? First of all, ew! I mean, I like salmon as much as the next carnivore, I guess, and I have nothing against the color of salmon either, but that's... a little too fishy.” She didn't even give him a chance to react to her really bad paronomasia (or pun in  _ Roy _ man's terms) before moving on. “And, secondly, are you even old enough to go into bars... well, when you're not working, and the last time I checked, Verdant was  _ not  _ a salmon bar.”  
  
“No, I mean... That's not...” Roy was adorably (Okay, so maybe it was more like awkwardly, but, when she wasn't the one acting awkward, Felicity found it adorable... like in a 'ha, sucker!' kind of way.) flustered. Plus, her joy in his discomfort helped distract Felicity from the fact that she might have just played up her (dyed) hair color to get away with a major flub. She wasn't proud of her actions, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, wasn't purposely using the blonde stereotype to your advantage actually the antithesis of that stereotype's meaning anyway? “A salmon bar is a salmon ladder... and you're not going to have any idea what that is either, so let's just forget the last five minutes, alright?”  
  
She shrugged noncommittally, traded in her magazine for another, and then savored the silence while it lasted... which, according to the amount of pages she managed to flip through – averaging five seconds per spread, was about twenty seconds. Roy really was impatient. Poor Thea.  
  
“So, not only do you have contact with the Arrow, but you're like super-smart, right?”  
  
“Eh.” She tried for modest but had a feeling it came off as exceedingly conceited. Whatever. Nobody was perfect.   
  
“Like... Ivy League smart.”  
  
“Oh, no, no, no. Ivy League schools are for trust fund babies whose grades can't get them into schools like the one I went to – MIT – but whose parents' bank accounts can barter a new wing of a building for an acceptance letter. If you're looking for someone who went to an Ivy League school – actually two of the four schools he went to and subsequently dropped and/or was expelled out of were Ivy League – then you should talk to Oliver.”  
  
“Ah. Your boyfriend.”  
  
Felicity sputtered. “Oliver Queen doesn't do girlfriends. I mean, he'll  _ do  _ them, but he doesn't do them.” At Roy's confused expression, she exclaimed, “come on! You know what I mean. Don't you?”  
  
“Rarely.”  
  
Under her breath, she mumbled, “you're so the president of the 40-watt club.”  
  
Apparently, he heard her, though. “And you're a genius... like Rain Man genius.”  
  
“Rain Man was autistic, you eegit.”  
  
“Well, if the verbal tourette shoe fits...”  
  
“You really have no idea how politically incorrect and offensive you are sometimes, do you?” Roy, the simpleton, just shrugged. “And, besides, I prefer the Doogie Howser comparison. As a child, he put people back together; I built computers.”  
  
“Doogie? You're shitting me now, right?”  
  
Felicity wrinkled her nose at Roy's question. “No, I'm not  _ defecating  _ you.”  
  
“Who the hell is Doogie Howser?”  
  
“Doogie Hoswer, M.D.. 'Did Doogie Howser just steal my' – expletive – 'car?' Before he was the legen... – I'm-going-to-wait-for-it-because-speaking-of-defecating-I-want-to-make-sure-you're-not-lactose-intolerant – ...dary Barney Stinson, Neil Patrick Harris.” A blank stare. Seriously, that was all Roy gave her. “It was a TV show from the early 90's.”  
  
“I wasn't even born yet.”  
  
“Yet you knew Rain Man which predated Doogie.”  
  
“Fine.” And she could hear the frustration in Roy's voice. It buoyed her spirits. “You're like  _ Sherlock Holmes  _ smart.”  
  
By now, Felicity could no longer pretend that she was still fake-reading a magazine. She tossed it aside in her excitement. “Really? You're a fan of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, too?”  
  
“Who?” If it wasn't for the fact that it was the end of December, Felicity would have believed that Roy was practicing for his next Halloween costume and making like an owl. Oh, and also his neck couldn't rotate his 270 degrees. There was that, too. “No, I like that show with that hot chick from  _ Charlie's Angels _ .”  
  
“Really. You couldn't even make it the BBC version?”  
  
“The BB-what?”  
  
Okay, maybe she should just let it slip that Oliver was the Arrow, because then Oliver would have to clean up her mess, and that would mean putting Roy out of his misery. And he was miserable. And he needed put down.   
  
And why was she all of a sudden obsessed with veterinary references?  
  
“I think I'm going to be sick.”  
  
“Holy shit.” Felicity zipped her gaze over to the hoodlum's beside her. He was grinning – no, smirking, which, given the fact that she had just warned of impending sickness, was a decidedly odd reaction. And then he opened his mouth again, and it all became abundantly, frightening clear. “You're pregnant. Seriously? Oliver Queen knocked you up? You're having Oliver Queen's baby? Thea's going to...”  
  
“Ssh, ssh, ssh,” Felicity beseeched him. She then proceeded to try (and fail) reaching her hands over to cover Roy's ever-flapping mouth... which resulted in a lot of slapping that looked more like paddling... not in the punishing schoolmarm way but in a dog trying to swim kind of way. “I know I give you a lot of flack about being dumb, but that's all relative to how intelligent I am. And because it's really amusing to make fun of you. But your driveway really doesn't reach the road, because you  _ cannot  _ say things like that. In public. Where people could hear you. And believe it. And, oh my god, I'm going to become a tabloid punchline.”  
  
“First of all, I live in the Glades; I don't have a driveway. And, secondly, no one's paying attention to us.”  
  
Felicity looked around to see if this was true. It wasn't. But people were glaring, not taking pictures with their cell phones or smiling like the gossip that just cashed in with the biggest (non)scoop of the century. So, she took a deep breath.  
  
“And, just to set the record straight, no, I'm not pregnant. I meant that I was going to be sick because your pop culture knowledge is deplorable. And shameful. Oliver lived on a non-technology friendly island for five years, and I think he has cooler references than you do.”  
  
“Yeah, well, sorry that I can't afford cable.”  
  
Felicity scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Roy, you're a petty thief. Steal it. Or at least commandeer someone's wireless signal and stream something that's not from the geriatric community's favorite television channel.” Before he could react, she changed the topic. “Also, speaking of Thea... not to mention the fact that you essentially said, 'Felicity, you have been 'profaning  _ Kanye _ and all the angels in heaven by shamelessly advertising the fact that you have had sexual intercourse, you trollop'... Why are  _ you  _ here?”  
  
“Theamademecomewithherforheryearly.”  
  
Not only did she talk a lot, but Felicity was well aware of the fact that she talked quickly, too, so she could understand Roy perfectly. But that didn't mean she was going to let him off the hook that easily.  
  
“Excuse me? I didn't quite make that out?” Essentially, she was saying 'dance, fishy, dance.'  
  
He sighed, slouched (some more), and she was pretty sure she spotted a pout, too. “Thea made me come with her for her yearly... and the fact that I know what a yearly is and am using the term in conversation is terrifying.” He took a deep breath. “Now, it's your turn.”  
  
“My turn to say yearly,” Felicity questioned. If he thought saying it was terrifying, he should feel one. “Yearly.”  
  
“No, I told you my reason for being here. Now, you have to tell me yours.”  
  
It only took her a few seconds to realize how she could spin this into further torture for her former attacker. (And, nope. She still hadn't forgotten about that yet.) Felicity smirked. “Well, you see, Roy, when a man and a woman  _ lust  _ each other, they will proceed to burp the worm in the mole hole, but it's only responsible to make sure that there's a bib involved. Otherwise, there's just a big mess that  _ no one  _ wants to deal with.”  
  
“You frighten me.”  
  
Personally, Felicity cracked herself up. So, she continued. “A girl's gotta have a leash when she goes to see a man about a dog, Roy.”  
  
“You also apparently have too much time on your hands.”  
  
“Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo, make sure you take your bullet-proof vest into battle with you.”  
  
“Yeah... I don't get that one. Well, the bullet-proof vest part I do, but Foxtrot...?”  
  
“It's called an acronym, Roy.”  
  
“Right. Of course it is.” He rolled his eyes; she went in for the kill.  
  
“Well, you see... Oliver has this thing. He likes to tickle my belly button from the inside, and I...”  
  
“Sorry I'm late.”  
  
Speak of the devil and he shall appear.  
  
Felicity startled slightly at Oliver's interruption. And then she giggled. “Really, Oliver, that is not something you say in an OB-GYN office.”   
  
Behind her, she heard Roy mumble to himself (and, apparently, to her as well), “if ever there was someone who missed their man-period....”  
  
She gazed up at Oliver, trying not to notice just how particularly pretty he looked that day, because, seriously, after getting her shot, she couldn't sleep with him for seven days. Not that Oliver was aware of this. She was pretty sure he thought they'd have to wait a lot longer than just a week before  _ the sex  _ could happen, but for Felicity's hormones (which had been amped up for nearly two weeks already, there wasn't anything  _ just  _ about having to delay for another seven days. Plus, what Oliver didn't know, he couldn't think up excuses to prevent. Anyway... what she found was a thoroughly amused Oliver who was doing that whole 'I'm-pretending-my-lips-are-twitching-because-I'm-exasperated-but-really-I-find-you-completely-charming' schtick of his. This made her wonder just how long he had been standing there, just how many other sex euphemisms he had overheard and would use against her in the future.  
  
Any pretend annoyance disappeared, however, when Oliver's eyes left her face to land menacingly upon Roy – poor, unsuspecting, totally deserving of Oliver's wrath Roy. “Are you following Felicity?”  
  
He hadn't been, but, unfortunately, Felicity watched as Oliver's accusation seemed to spark an idea in Roy's mind. So, needing to distract her mortal enemy, she offered up an explanation on his behalf. “Actually, Roy's here with Thea.”  
  
And then she sat back, crossed her legs, and watched as the games began.  
  
“It's not like that,” the younger man was quick to reassure, jumping to his feet and only shooting a brief glare in Felicity's direction. She lapped it up like it was a milkshake. “Thea's just here for a checkup.” Oliver's glare turned into a snarl, and then the backpedaling began. “I don't mean... not  _ that  _ kind of checkup – you know... the monthly, I-have-a-bun-in-the-oven type of checkup. But her yearly. And I only came with her, because she said I had to, because she said that I'm the only one who benefits from the discomfort she's forced to endure every twelve months...” Roy's words trailed off as Thea joined their little group, eyebrow raised and arms crossed defiantly over her chest. Between both of the Queen siblings' reactions to his less than thought out rambling (and how fun was it  _ not  _ to be the one doing that?), Roy deflated and muttered under his breath, “not that I'm ever probably going to experience those kind of benefits ever again now.”  
  
“ _ Roy _ ,” and oh-boy could Thea Queen pack just as much meaning into a name as her brother. “What exactly is going on here?”  
  
Felicity observed as the street urchin rather unbelievably tried to act innocent. “Nothing. I was just talking to Felicity when...”  
  
“And you know Felicity how exactly,” Thea interrupted her boyfriend's incompetent explanation.  
  
Feeling it was time to interject herself into the conversation, Felicity stood. “We met a couple of weeks ago,” she told the younger woman. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Roy seemed to collapse with relief. He really did make it all too easy. “You see, he cornered me in the alley behind Verdant, because he thought I was a prostitute.”  
  
And then, in the middle of a very prominent OB-GYN office, Thea Queen lost her marbles. She went berserk. It was... lovely. With a glower that could freeze ice over a hot spring, Thea launched herself at her boyfriend. “You did  _ what _ ?!” And then there was a lot of high-pitched swearing accompanied by several grunts of pain from Roy as, along with her words, Thea attacked him with pinching fingers. Felicity stood back and watched gleefully, while Oliver hung back even further – the smart, stupid man, because he realized just how slippery a slope of discovery they were on.   
  
Finally, Roy managed to get a word in edge-wise, but, after he said his peace, Felicity found herself really wishing that Thea would have pinched him into silence. Or scratched. Scratched would have worked, too. “I wasn't trying to pick her up, Thea! And are you just going to ignore the fact that your brother is here?  _ With  _ Felicity.”  
  
In that moment, Felicity figured out  _ exactly  _ what her former attacker had been working himself up towards during their entire conversation. He wasn't complimenting her brain's prowess; he was stating his reasons for why he was going to blackmail her. He was going to use what he thought he knew about Felicity's sexytimes with Oliver to force her into helping him uncover the Arrow's identity. Basically, he would have tried to make her buy his silence, and he didn't accept cash, credit, or check; he only traded in words – 'Hi, the Arrow is what? The Arrow is who? The Arrow is... chicka-chicka... Oliver Queen' – words. If she wasn't so offended, she'd be impressed.  
  
“Why wouldn't he go with his girlfriend to the gynecologist, Roy,” Thea snapped back. “Like I told you, that's what boyfriends do.”  
  
Except, they really didn't. Boyfriends only went to the gynecologist with their girlfriends when they were being punished. (Right?) Also, she wasn't Oliver's girlfriend. Hell, she wasn't even having sex with him, because he was scrambling to get out of his dare that wasn't really a dare that she had accepted, and  _ that's _ why she had forced him to meet her at her lady doctor appointment: because, for once in their relationship, she was enjoying being the one who could take advantage of something  _ he  _ had said without really thinking the words through before they left his mouth. And,  _ also _ , since when did Thea Queen think that Felicity was dating her brother... not Felicity's brother, because she didn't have one, and, whoa, talk about nasty. But Thea's brother. Dating Thea's brother... which she was most certainly not doing.  
  
Before she could voice  _ any  _ of these objections, her name was being called, and Thea was pulling a once more obedient Roy behind her and out of the doctor's office. As she walked by Oliver, Thea patted his cheek. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do, big brother.” And then she was mercifully, confusingly, horrifyingly (because Felicity never got the chance to explain... anything) gone.   
  
Thea Queen made needles look inviting.  
  
That didn't mean, however, that Oliver still wasn't buying her ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream.


End file.
